Janelle read her instruction booklet as best she could on her knees. It was hard because the wind fluttered the pages, so she propped her knee on top of it to keep the book open to today's page.
October 3, 2016
1) Laundry
2) Groceries—see list in your purse
She stopped there. Groceries? How was she supposed to get groceries like this? She couldn't even use her hands with the cuffs on tight behind her back. Up until then, all of her tasks had always been within the confines of his third-floor New York apartment.
Max gave her lists of instructions to do while he was at work each day.
Janelle enjoyed being Max's slave. She really did. He cared for her, he provided for her. In exchange she essentially transferred all of her rights, decisions, and person over to him on her own free accord. She still had parents in Tokyo who she loved and friends that she hanged out with at boutiques and at coffee houses. She really was a normal person just like everyone else. Except for one small detail.
Janelle did not own herself.
Max owned her.
She had a collar that she wore 24/7. They had a ceremony and everything. That had been nearly a year ago.
But no one on the outside really knew. If she searched the eyes that met hers when she greeted a "vanilla" person, she had always detected a flint of acknowledgement. Somehow, they sensed it. That she was in a typical one-sided relationship.
That's the way she liked it. She liked being dominated. It made her feel... if she had to put her finger on it, it just made her feel right. Like she was relieved of some great burden. She no longer had any care in the world—except of course pleasing her Master.
Janelle came to the conclusion that there'd be no way she could make it to the store, much less down the elevator, without someone noticing that her arms were handcuffed behind her back.
Then there was the matter of the dress. It was a skintight black garment the size of a dishrag, and she had no panties on underneath (Max insisted on this set-up so that she could still pee on her own). How would she be able to explain any of it? What would be people say to her? Would they yell obscene catcalls? Would she get slanted eyes and disapproving glares from passersby?
She shuddered at the thought.
Could she be arrested if a policeman saw her?
No, of course not, Janelle, it's not against the law to walk around the city in handcuffs.
Then again, it's not the kind of thing you typically see on a bright autumn morning. Since she had her own cuffs, at least she'd be saving the cops the trouble.
Then the idea came to her. One of Max's winter coats. Yes, yes. It'd be big enough for her to drape over her shoulders. That would hide both a) her cuffed hands, and b) her skimpy slut attire.
She got up, walked to the closet, and opened it awkwardly. Then, she stopped herself before proceeding inside. Could she wear one of his coats? The contract was silent on the matter. It stipulated that she had to wear whatever Max told her to wear. He never said anything about the coat, though.
Max liked puzzles.
Maybe it's a game,
she thought.
Yes, yes, a game. I have to solve this conundrum with the clues that he has given me. The answer is the coat.
Facing backwards, she pulled the coat from its hanger, walked into the bedroom, and laid it on the bed in front of her. Her initial thought was that she would be able to flop herself down onto the bed, and that somehow the coat would cling to her shoulders. When this didn't work, she flung it up and tried to shimmy herself so that it would land on her in mid-air. After two attempts, she got it to drape around her neck like a workout towel, and she gave up. She put the coat back onto the hanger in defeat.
"What am I going to do?" she whispered to herself. "Think, Janelle... Think... It's too hard. I can't do it. He'll understand. I'll make it up to him."
I'm going to suck him off as soon as he comes through the door,
she thought.
I hope he doesn't punish me for this.
The door exploded open. Max stood, rigid and warrior-like, waiting. Immediately, Janelle came to him, got onto her knees, and bowed her head.
"Evening," he grumbled, and walked past her, setting his leather bag down onto the couch. "Come sit here with me, slave."
She gulped. "Yes, Master."
He kicked off his shoes, crossed his feet onto the coffee table, and flicked the TV on. "If the Jets win, I'll let you come tonight."
She couldn't contain herself. She blurted it out. "I didn't get the groceries."
"What?" His eyes came off the TV and were stuck onto her like glue mixed with honey.
Oh no.
"Why didn't you just call it in?"
"Call it in..." she trailed off. She bit her lip. "You mean Jeff?"
Jeff was a high school dropout. He was like a butler, only he ran errands for Max for money. Max didn't have time for things like laundry and changing his oil, so he had hired an assistant on an on-call basis.
"I thought I was supposed to go to the store and get the groceries myself," she said, a tear welling up in one eye.
"Are you crazy? In handcuffs? And dressed like that? You'd be kidnapped!"
